Take me to your bleeder!

Ok, I’m breaking a personal rule that I set for myself when I started blogging, namely; never blog about anything personal.  I’m not even 100% sure why I’m doing it. I think it’s because it involves me taking an enormous step outside of my comfort zone and if I tell you all about it then I’ll HAVE to do it. Hold me accountable, people! No backing out. Ok, so, here it is: I’ve decided to donate blood. Yes, that’s the big deal. Stop your eye rolling and let me explain, me voluntarily giving blood is like most people voluntarily walking in front of a bus.

For most people getting blood taken is much like this:

For me it is this:

The result is always this:

By nature, I’m pretty level. Things like spiders, bugs and rats don’t send me into shrieking, fan-handed hysterics like they do for a lot of people. I don’t like them, mind you, but I can deal. However, if you put a syringe inside my hula-hoop of personal space, know that I mean business and will kill every man, woman, child and animal in my path to escape (whilst shrieking, fan-handed). I know it’s weird but I have my reasons.

When I was ten I had a really bad accident that involved an icy hill and a tree that left me with a severely shattered right femur. No word of a lie the last thing my mom said to me before I went out the door that February afternoon was ‘don’t break anything’. Thanks, Ma! By the time I got to the hospital my thigh muscle was in a severe state of spasm as it had been nearly torn in half (bring it on childbirth, you got nothing!) so, they immediately starting pumping me full of morphine and etc. Whatever they were giving me wasn’t working so someone had the genius idea to use a syringe and inject relaxants directly into the muscle. This is about when it all went to hell. As the doctor was administering the drug my muscle went into full spasm and the needle GOT LODGED IN MY THIGH. Imagine watching a 200lb man trying with all his might to pry a syringe out of your body and it not budging one iota. I was too young to immediately grasp the full severity of my injury but I could understand that what I was seeing was extremely bad news. At that moment any shred of bravery and dignity I may have had left went out the window like a bullet from a gun. No one could get it out so I took it like any ten year old would; I went berserk and passed out.  The whole situation turned out to be really bad. In fact, I was lucky to survive and/or not have any permanent repercussions (other than a hip that aches like all hell before it rains). I was hospitalized for a month, had two surgeries, spent a full six months bedridden, was in a body cast for 3 months and on crutches for a very, very long time.  And THAT is why I’m terrified of needles. Still judging me?

So why, by my own volition, would I think of putting myself in the dreaded needles’ path? It’s because I feel so incredibly guilty that it's gotten to the point that I have to do something about it. Seventeen-ish years ago someone rolled up their sleeve, donated their blood and saved my life but I have never returned the favour. Also, Canadian Blood Services haunts me on a daily basis. They’re always emphasizing the shortage of O negative blood. Guess what my blood type is?  That makes me a universal donor and riddled with compound guilt.

Maybe I should stop listening to the radio? No, I should get off my ass and go donate some blood.